Woken (Without Painkillers)

It is 05:24 when the bells begin to call us for Vigils

I have not had the best of night's sleep

I dreamt, many times, of being confused

In the rearrangement of my poetry

And I do, quite-literally, mean, seeing the text

On the page, and trying to move it from one place to another place

Mostly it was to no avail, because more often than not

The words decided that they did not wish to be moved

I woke early, at just after 04:30 British Summer Time

I spent quite some time massaging my arm

Feeling for the aching parts, stretching out the muscles

And manipulating the tissue, as if somehow to aid the circulation

I do hope that my elbow is going to get better

At least I do have the feeling, and I am able to massage

And to write, about my visit to the Abbey at Buckfast

Or at Buckfastleigh, as many of the words deign to say

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Love Is (Without Fabrication)

These bells are not

The bells of Plum Village

Not that I have yet heard

Those bells toll for myself

Sometimes

We have to be on our own

Sometimes

We have to be alone

To hear the human voices

To bathe, immensely

In the silence, in the light

Of those compounds of love

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Damage Litigation (Without Resolve)

There was a darkness

A sadness

An emptiness

To your absence

And not one word

Was spoken of you

By either of us

How could we

All three

Be damaged so

Or is it only I

I that am

So so super-sensitive

Is it only me

That senses

The aroma of decay

When

At this stage

Of our life

All ought to be joy

Or at least

A few certain splashes

Of that confidence

Which just might

In a certain light

Be passed off as joy

Why then

The darkness

The sadness

The absence

Gifted, by the emptiness

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Variable Frequencies (Without Discharge)

I feel a smile

Which radiates

Even with my eyes closed

As the voices sing the songs

Those, muse-filled, suggestions and responses

Of the Benedictine Monks

Which vibrate, yes they do physically bounce

And resonate exponentially

Throughout my entire body

I am also able

To sense the blood flow

As it scours and courses through my veins

Tingling on its journey

In its life-enhancing attempt

To repair my damaged physicality

I am being made ready to conduct freely

As if a battery, being re-charged

Thus able to visibly, with differential force, smile

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Seat (Without Escape)

I can hear the water, cascading

I can her the birds, invading

Such is

The stillness of autumn

I can see that settled surety

In the rusted trees

In the well-trimmed hedge

In the solid oak seat, which I sit upon

I see the singular gull

Gliding, and swooping, and landing

I see the crimson-red, star-shaped leaves

Set against the grey-blue sky

I count twenty-five vertical dark windows

In the, near-distance, conference centre

There is not a soul about

But of course there are insects, and flies

Midges, and maybe even mosquitoes

Which quickly puts me on edge

As did the vertigo

On the clifftops earlier today

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